


Meltdown

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Caretaking, First Time, Heat Stroke, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV First Person, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-25 12:23:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6194995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser can't take the heat.  Ray takes care of him.  Things get a little complicated...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meltdown

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to dance_across for beta. Happy March 11 all!
> 
> This fic brought to you by Desiree's House of Tropes.

“Stupid fucking certifiable Mountie. Who the hell runs around in a fucking wool coat in the middle of fucking August?”

Fuming, I fumble my locks open one-handed—one two three—shoulder the door open, and tow Fraser inside. He’s still moving under his own steam, just about, but he’s staggering like a drunk and leaning a fair chunk of his weight on my shoulder. And just for the record? Fraser is _heavy._ I could fireman’s-carry him if I had to, but it’s just as well I’ve never had to. And I’m damn well not starting today, thank you ever so kindly.

I get him into the bedroom, ease him down on the edge of the bed, and leave him sitting there while I crank up the window A/C unit as high as it’ll go.

“Look, we all know you’re Superman, the whole goddamn world is aware of that, but that uniform was designed for a country where it snows all the fucking time. And in case you didn’t notice, there ain’t no snow around here right now. What we got is ninety-degree heat and a million percent humidity, and what we do about that is we wear short sleeves. Shorts, if we’re lucky; cotton slacks if we gotta look like respectable adults. What we do not do is wrap up snug in three layers, plus leather boots and a three-hundred-pound hat.”

Fraser’s still sitting where I put him. Pasty-faced, hair soaked with sweat, eyes closed. Hasn’t budged, hasn’t shed any of his clothes, and apparently he’s too out of it to even try to correct me about the seasons in Canada, which is just no damn good at all.

“Come on, Frase, get your jacket off, you’ll feel better.”

He moves his hands vaguely, like maybe he’s trying to magic the clothes off himself. With an impatient snarl, I start untying, unbuckling, unbuttoning, and unfastening every damn piece of that stupid dress uniform I can get my hands on. He doesn’t protest, either about the fact that I’m stripping him or about how I’m mistreating the uniform, and that’s a bad goddamn sign.

His henley and undershirt are both soaked with sweat, big shock there. He shivers a little when I get his chest bare—I hope that means he’s at least feeling the A/C some. The boots are a job and a half to get loose, and then the pumpkin pants turn out to be way more complicated than pants have any right to be.

“Jesus, Frase, what do you Mounties do when you have to take a leak? Oh, right, they probably make you schedule it in advance and fill out a form in triplicate, so what are a couple thousand hooks, buttons and weird pieces of string after all that?”

That at least gets a mumble out of him, though hell if I have a clue what he’s trying to say. 

I toss the boots and pants in the corner with the rest of his clothes—still disrespecting the uniform, like I give a crap right now. I’d burn the damn thing if I weren’t afraid of giving Fraser an actual stroke on top of heat exhaustion. Well, okay, I wouldn’t really, but it’s a nice thought.

What ought to be another nice thought is that I’ve got Fraser sitting on my bed, wearing nothing but boxer shorts. Right there, that’s the stuff of fantasy—jerk-off fantasy, that is. And yeah, I know: highly inappropriate, but Jesus Christ, the guy is gorgeous with his clothes _on_ , and it’s not like I’m surrounded by _attainable_ options. But unfortunately—or fortunately, depending how you look at it—I’m too busy worrying about whether my partner’s about to keel over to get too distracted by his mostly-nude bod. Plus, green-around-the-gills is not a sexy look on anybody.

“How you feeling? Feel sick?”

He gives a little nod, not opening his eyes. When I put my fingers on his throat to check his pulse, it’s skittering way too fast.

“Gonna puke?”

“I. . .don’t think so,” he murmurs, although from the way he sounds, I wouldn’t bet money on it.

“Head hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, look, you hang tight, I’ll be right back.”

I grab the trashcan and set it by his feet, just in case he changes his mind about throwing up, then head for the bathroom to wet down some towels.

When I press the damp cloth against the back of Fraser’s neck, he shivers visibly, then sighs in relief.

“That feel better?”

“Yes, that’s. . .” He seems to lose the thought before he gets to the end of the sentence, or maybe talking’s just too much work.

“Great, okay, now you just hold that there.” I bring his hand up to hold the towel in place. “And why don’t you get comfy, while we’re at it, huh? Come on, lay down.”

Fraser’s eyes crack open to look me, but he doesn’t actually move until I take him by the shoulders and ease him down onto the bed. I get his legs up, get him lying flat, then drape the second towel across his sweaty forehead.

The A/C’s starting to cool the air down some, but I don’t know if it’s going to help fast enough, so I make a run to the kitchen for some ice packs. I snag the Gatorade out of the fridge while I’m there.

“Got you some ice. Here.”

I ease Fraser’s arms away from his body just enough to slip an ice pack into his armpit. He jerks like he’s taken an electric shock, but then settles back down and presses his arm back in to keep the pack in place. So I give him another on the other side. This time, he’s ready for it, so he doesn’t hit the ceiling, just gives another little shiver and a little sigh.  

“Okay?” I ask.

“Yes. Feels good.”

“Better than sex?” I tease, hoping to get a rise out of him, but he just grunts as his eyes drift closed again.

I wait a little while before offering him some Gatorade. By that point, he’s with it enough to push himself up on his elbows. He sips carefully out of the bottle, pulling a face but gamely getting down a decent amount of fluid before lying back again. I shift one of the ice packs to the back of his neck so he doesn’t have to sleep on a soggy towel; it’s halfway to warm, but it’ll still do some good.

“You just go on and catch a nap,” I tell him, though he doesn’t really to be told; he’s fading already. “I’ll be right here, in case you need anything.”

He mumbles something I can’t make sense of and—bam!—conks right out.

After a minute or two, it’s obvious he’s down for the count. I watch him sleep for a little while longer, then sneak out and grab a book and a glass of water for myself. There probably isn’t really any need for me to be in here anymore—emergency’s over—but I feel less twitchy if I can glance over now and then and see how he’s doing. And he’s asleep, so what’s he going to care?

And man, when Fraser sleeps, he doesn’t fool around—or maybe the heat exhaustion just really wiped him out. He lays so still and heavy, he could be dead, except that I can see his eyelids doing that flickery thing, and I can hear him breathing if I hold my own breath.

And of course, he doesn’t really look like a dead body at all. Even though he’s still a little paler than usual, his skin has that living color to it; his lips are pinkish, and if I look closer, I can see hints of pink on his ears and fingertips, too. Leaning over him like this, I can see the pulse jump in his throat, feel his breath making little air currents near my face.

His hair’s dried wavy—I bet if he grew it out longer, he’d have curls—and a couple of pieces are stuck to his forehead, over his eyebrow. I brush them back with one finger.

Suddenly, his eyes pop open and he jerks upright like he’s spring-loaded. Nearly cracks my chin with his head as I jump back out of the way.

“Whoa, hey, take it easy.” I put a hand on his arm to steady him, or maybe to keep him from bolting. He gives me a wild-eyed look, but then I guess his brain finishes booting up, because he relaxes. Well, mostly relaxes. He still looks a little nervous.

“You’re okay,” I say, giving his arm a soft squeeze. “It’s just me.”

“I—yes, of course.”

“You remember where you are, right?”

“Yes, yes, you very kindly offered me the use of, ah. . .” He pats the bed instead of actually finishing the sentence, like he doesn’t want to say the word in polite company. “Thank you for that, Ray,” he adds, weirdly formal in that way he gets sometimes. “I’m sorry to have been a bother.”

“Hey, no problem, glad to help. So, how you feeling now?”

“Much better, thank you.” Fraser definitely sounds more like his usual self, though still a little twitchy. Looks better, too: he’s back to his regular color, and he’s obviously got more energy than he did when we got here.

Still, I put my hand back on his forehead to check his temp. Feels okay. He’s a little sweaty, but that’s probably a good thing. Sweat means he doesn’t have heat _stroke;_ but the fact that he’s not drenched like he was before hopefully means the heat exhaustion’s easing off. 

“You look better. Don’t feel like you got a fever or nothing, so that’s good.” 

“I’m perfectly fine,” he says impatiently. “Honestly, Ray, you needn’t worry.”

He makes a move like he’s going to just jump right out of bed, but nope, I’m not having that. My hands drop to his shoulders, holding him in place, trying to ease him back down into bed, while I shoot for a soothing bedside manner.

“Okay, okay, I’m not doubting your word or nothing, just, how ‘bout you take it slow, all right? Make sure you’re not going to have a relapse or nothing.”

He’s resisting my nudging, and I don’t want to turn this into a wrestling match, ‘cause that’s no way to handle a sick guy. So I change tacks, start lightly rubbing his shoulders—soothing, right?—and kind of petting him a little. Like you’d do to calm down a little kid, or a dog, or, you know, a friend who’s stuck to the ceiling ‘cause you startled him out of a sound sleep.

“I mean, there’s no rush, nowhere you gotta be anytime soon. . .Queen’s not dropping by for tea, is she? C’mon, take a load off. . .don’t have to lay down if you don’t want, but take it easy, huh?”

It works. . .sort of. He doesn’t exactly relax, but he does shut up and stop trying to move—in fact, he goes weirdly still, like I’ve flipped his off-switch. Shuts his eyes, which makes me wonder if he’s feeling queasy again, or maybe just realizing he’s still tired after all.

“Okay, so, you just hang out, chill for a while. I can get you something to eat if you’re hungry at all? Maybe some toast, or juice? More Gatorade? You should drink something.”

When he doesn’t answer right away, I squeeze his shoulder. He startles, with a faint grunt that I don’t think is on purpose. His eyes stay closed, though. Yeah, not back up to a hundred percent yet. His cheeks are flushing, and there’s fresh sweat beading all along his hairline. 

I almost go to wipe it off with my thumb, but Fraser’s still holding himself all stiff and motionless _,_ plus he’s got all his marbles back, so even though it felt natural to touch him like that before, now I’m suddenly wondering if I’m allowed. And that makes me real conscious of the fact that I’m still holding onto him. Which wouldn’t normally be a big deal, except he’s wearing nothing but his skivvies, and he’s also in bed, in _my_ bed, which makes it. . .all weird.

“Right, uh, yeah, I’ll get you—just sit tight, okay?” I stammer like an idiot as I straighten up and shove my hands in my pockets. Fraser still doesn’t say anything. I beat a hasty retreat.

When I get back with a glass of OJ, Fraser’s on his feet, buttoning up his pants.

“Hey, knock it off,” I tell him. “You’re not cleared for being vertical yet. We just did this. C’mon, lay back down.”

“I’m fine,” he says, a little too fast and loud. “You caught it in time, you did the right thing, and I’m fine now, no ill effects. Thank you kindly.”

“You’re welcome, but you’re not putting that death trap of a uniform back on.”

“I can hardly walk the streets in my underwear,” he shoots back at me. Hey, at least he’s feeling chipper enough to make a pain in the ass of himself. His face is still redder than it should be, though, and I’m getting tired of this game.

“I’ll find you something else to wear. I’ll figure something out.”

Of course he ignores me, because when did Fraser ever take my advice just because I was talking common sense? I grab his wrist as he’s pulling up his suspenders; that gets his attention, at least.

“Oh, just take the damn pants off, you don’t need to leave right this minute.”

“I’d rather not,” he replies stiffly, clutching his waistband like he’s afraid I’m going to rip the clothes back off him. Which, to be fair, I might just do if he doesn’t stop acting like such a bonehead.

I mean okay, it ain’t every day you parade around in your shorts in front of your partner, that’s kind of embarrassing. Especially for a buttoned-up guy like Fraser. I get that. But on the other hand, he wasn’t shy about stripping off in front of me that time he smuggled my files in his pants, and we barely knew each other at the time. Now we’re best buddies, we’ve been through a lot together, so why the hell should he suddenly get all squirrely about showing me some skin?

“Come on,” I coax, tugging at his hand to get him to let go of his pants. “You ain’t got anything under there I haven’t seen before.”

It’s just a dumb joke to break the tension, but Fraser goes stiff as a board and grabs my wrist—way harder than my grip on his hand; hard enough to hurt.

“Please take your hands off me,” he bites out.

I jerk back, only I can’t break his grip and it takes him a second to let go of me. My stomach’s churning and my face is hot. I’ve _never_ heard Fraser say that to _anyone_ , even when they obviously deserved it; he lets total strangers paw him, he lets his _boss_ get away with—but now—to _me_ —and he’s never minded me touching him before, he’s crawled over my fucking lap and thought nothing of it—but now, now, the look on his face, _oh God,_ what the hell have I _done. . ._ ?

So of course I yell at him—it’s not a decision, it’s that or puke; my brain’s frozen with panic, nobody at the wheel, here.

“Fine, fine, Jesus, I get it, no touching the merchandise, thank you very fucking kindly for your services, Ray, now, how about you piss off and let me get on with broiling my stupid, stubborn Canadian brains into jelly _again!_ ”

Panting, I finally manage to shut down my stupid fucking mouth. Fraser stares at me with the same expression as that time I punched him in the jaw. Only, this time, instead of stalking out, he drops his head. It would look like giving in, except for how his shoulders stay rigid as steel.

“I’m sorry.” He sounds like he means it, but his voice is still tight with anger and he says it to his feet, not to my face. “I know you didn’t. . .mean. . .anything.”

Before I can figure out what the hell to say to that, he does look me in the eye: deliberate, a challenge. Then he drops his pants and steps out of them, staring straight at me the whole time, so _I_ have to break eye-contact to see what it is he wants me to see. Which is. . .holy cow.

Fraser’s got a serious tent in his shorts.

For a minute, I’m speechless, staring at him: bare skin starting to flush at the neck and chest, white boxers not doing much to hide that boner, with the head of his cock peeking through the fly. Hair stuck to his head in dark waves, except for some strands fluffing up here and there as they dry. Sweat still glistening on his forehead and a splotch of red on each of his cheeks. Chin high, proud; but there’s something vulnerable showing in his ice-grey eyes. Fear, or shame, or. . .I don’t know what, but he doesn’t drop his gaze. Daring me to look.

Jesus Christ, he’s beautiful.

I feel like I’ve been dunked in scalding water, and not because of the weather; not just from embarrassment, either. ‘Cause jerk-off fantasies are one thing, but real, live Fraser, with a real, live. . .I don’t even know how to think about that—my body’s running off with its own ideas, but my brain’s grinding its gears.

I swallow hard, trying not to stare at his crotch. Because yeah, he’s showing me, but that’s to make a point. It’s the opposite of an invitation: it’s a challenge.

Only—only I don’t know what he expects me to do, here. Worse, I don’t know what he _wants_ me to do. He’s pissed at me for pushing him into a corner and embarrassing him; and shit, I don’t blame him. I’d feel the same, in his shoes. But is he just upset about the privacy violation, or is it because. . .he didn’t want _me_ to see? Because he was afraid I’d want. . .or afraid I _wouldn’t_ want. . . ?

The one thing I do know is that the ball’s in my court and the clock’s running out. I got just one shot to get this right. I know what I _want_ the answer to be—I sure as hell know what my _body_ wants it to be—and you know, if he didn’t want to know, all he had to do was not ask.

“Hey, um, look,” I say, with my heart hammering in my throat so hard I’m about to choke on it. “I’m feeling pretty hot, too, I’m just going to. . .”

I can’t actually bring myself to finish the sentence, and talking is kind of beside the point at the moment, anyway. I strip off my T-shirt, then unbutton my khakis.

Fraser watches me, shocked round-eyed. I’m feeling way self-conscious, probably I’m blushing, and I can’t look him in the face as I step out of my pants. This is some seriously crazy behavior, here—but I’m all in now, money’s on the table, it’s too late to fold.

I kick my pants aside, straighten up, and face Fraser full-on. Daring him to look, like he dared me. I’m not as hard as he is (yet), but enough to give him an eyeful.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move a muscle, except for his eyes, which flicker back and forth between my crotch and my face uncertainly, although there’s no way he can miss the bulge in my briefs.

“I, uh. . .” My voice comes out kind of raspy. Fraser’s eyes lock onto mine, wary. . .hopeful. “I’m kind of burning up, here.”

Slowly, deliberately, he raises his free hand and lays it on my forehead like he’s checking me for fever.

“Yes, you are,” he whispers. His voice is even rougher than mine. His hand on my skin is burning hot. It doesn’t move; he’s holding himself unnaturally still, watching me.

I swallow, then say, “You know, uh, that’s not the most. . .maybe you should check. . .just to be sure. . .”

I take hold of his unresisting hand and mold it around my cock. Man, the heat of his palm, even through my jockeys; the solid feel of it! I can feel my cock swelling against his hand, and I can see on his face that he feels it too. Some evidence, you can’t argue against.

“Ah. Yes. Definitely. . .overheated.” He still has that rabbit-in-the-headlights look, but the corners of his eyes are starting to crinkle with a hint of a smile. “I’m afraid. . .”

He gives me an experimental squeeze that fires sparks all the way down to my toes. I squeak like a goddamned chew toy. Fine, whatever, not like I got any dignity to lose. Anyway, Frase likes it: he licks his lips like he’s thinking about licking something else, which makes my cock jerk in his grasp.

“I—I should—probably lie down, huh?”

“Yes, that would be for the best,” he says solemnly. The laugh-wrinkles are definitely visible around his eyes now. He rubs the heel of his hand firmly up my cock until I choke on a moan.

He lets go of me and I start for the bed, but he stops me by hooking a finger into the waistband of my undershorts.

“You’ll be more comfortable without this,” he murmurs.

He strips it off me without waiting for an answer. Fraser on a mission: fast, focused, unstoppable. When he’s got me buck-naked, I stretch out on the bed, but he just hovers a foot away, looking down at me. The look on his face is pure hunger, but his body language is still holding back, tentative.

I tug on the hem of his boxers.

“C’mon, you too.”

He licks his lips again, which makes my cock jump just like before—he sees that, and flashes me this shy, wondering smile before dropping his shorts.

Oh, man; oh, yeah; that’s good. That’s. . .I don’t know why there should be such a big difference between mostly naked and all-the-way naked, but the sight of Fraser’s bare cock arching up out of that thatch of black hair. . .for a couple of seconds, I can barely breathe.

He’s watching me. Sees me look; sees me like. I catch his eyes, then lick my lips, slow and sexy. His breath catches, loud enough for me to hear, and his eyes glint with humor as he mirrors the gesture back at me, then finally—finally!—lies down next to me.

Despite the A/C, it’s still pretty hot in here, plus we’re both sweating already, throwing off heat like a couple of engines. I’m not sure if it’s that or nervousness that makes it hard to bridge that last tiny little gap between us, but we both hesitate, until finally I reach up and wipe the sweat from Fraser’s forehead like I wanted to do before.

His eyelids flutter and he sighs like I’ve done something special, which makes me go hot and tight inside, from my throat all the way down to my crotch.

I roll over onto my back, spreading out my arms, keeping my eyes on his.

He rests one knee on the mattress, plants his hands on either side of my head—slowly, carefully, like even now he thinks I might change my mind—then lowers himself until his lips are right above mine, but not touching, not quite. Hangs there, out of focus, just breathing on me, until I give a little growl of frustration—and then his mouth comes down on mine, finally, _finally_ , soft and sweet and lingering, and I swear I can feel the heat rising in the little space left between his body and mine.

He licks the line of my jaw, up and around my ear, and back down my throat, leaving a tingly trail. I shiver, and he chuckles softly, his cheek so close to mine I can feel the sound vibrate in my bones.

“Cooling,” he murmurs, and blows a stream of air across my damp skin. It does feel cool; feels good; feels nowhere near enough. I smile and squirm a little, on purpose, to encourage him. He takes the hint and goes to work with his tongue, working his way from my throat down my chest, carefully painting my skin, pausing once in a while to blow on me. Wisps of cool that might as well be fire, zinging along my skin, feeding the heat that’s broiling me from the inside out.

By the time he finds my belly button, I’m squirming for real, not just for show, clutching at the sheets to hold myself still, because there will be time to grab him later, oh yes, there will, but I don’t want to interrupt this—this—

He lifts his head just enough to smile up at me. Oh, wow. He’s shining all over with sweat, and his cheeks are still rosy, but not with shame or anger, not anymore. The last of the doubt’s gone from his eyes, leaving happy, hungry, hundred-percent Fraser beaming at me.

 _Hold onto your hats, boys_ —and that’s all I have time to think, before his mouth comes down on my cock and all that heat that’s been building up in both of us goes critical— _foom!—_ meltdown.


End file.
